This morning was one of those mornings when you think "Why did I get out of bed? Why don't I live in a city where owning a car is normal?" This pissy attitude was stemming from the fact that the V train subway line was under construction, but the MTA didn't bother to tell anyone. After being informed by a homeless man, who had obviously been drinking since around 1984, shouted "You motherfucking stupid honkies! The motherfucking train ain't runnin'! Give me a motherfucking fucking quarter! Fuckers..."
So yes, I was informed in the most eloquent language that my favorite train in all of New York City was not running. Luckily, I have a Plan B for such situations. I can take the Uptown F train up two stops and catch the Uptown E train. dThe Uptown morning E train is my second favorite train in the city because it, like the V train, always has empty seats.
After catching the next available Uptown F train at 2nd Avenue, the site of the failed V train, I made my way up to West 4th Street where I transferred to the Uptown E. True to fashion, the E train provided plenty of empty seats, as well as some majorly attractive French tourists. That is another reason I adore the E and V trains: Both typically have extremely attractive men on them. I'm not one to talk to strangers, but I am one to stare at strangers.
As the E train made its way Uptown, it became increasingly full of passengers. This is an obvious observance since generally every train after 14th street is generally packed on the morning and evening commute. However, one man standing in front of me stood out in an odd way. Unfortunately, he wasn't a foxy frenchman. Instead he was Mr. Non-descript guy. You know the type: Khakis (most likely Dockers brand), light blue button up shirt, brown shoes, brown belt. He had light brown hair and I'm sure his eyes were probably brown too. He wasn't unattractive per se, just not memorable.
By the time we hit 34th Street/Penn Station, the train was mobbed with commuters. Mr. Non-descript inched closer into my personal space (a concept that oddly enough, still exsists even in New York). I noticed he was spending an obscene amount of time staring at my feet. I started to squirm uncomfortably in my seat. What the hell was he looking at me for?
I don't if this is a result of poor self-esteem, or a result of simply being a woman, but my first thoughts were kind of demeaning: "Does he think my feet are gross?", "What's wrong with my feet?", "Are they too big?", "Do I have a gross callus that I haven't noticed yet?", "Did my pedicure from this past weekend already lose its appeal?" I began staring at him too, in hopes of working out what the deal was. He must have felt my persistent gaze because he looked up, only to make awkward eye contact with me. Then he continued to stare at my feet.
By this point, the E train was fast approaching my stop at 53rd Street and Madison Ave. I stood up from my seat and made my way to the door, once again making eye contact with Mr. Non-descript. I gave him one of those "I'm raising my eyebrows and giving you a half ass smile as to say I know you were staring at my feet" looks just as the train screached to a halt.
As the doors opened and I stepped onto the platform, he spoke.
Below is a break down of the conversation:
Mr. Non-descript: "Your red toe nail polish makes me want to touch your feet."
(Doors shut. Train departs)
Yes ladies and gentlemen, I had my very first encounter with a foot fetish man. You hear stories about woman having their feet and shoes grabbed on the subway by stilleto-induced crazed perverts, but my foot fetish man was quite pleasant, although a bit of a starer. Wherever you are Mr. Non-descript, and to whatever pair of shoes you jerk off to this evening, you hold a special place in my heart. Right next to the homeless guy who wears a dress and curses at the George Washington statue in Union Square.
*Special thanks go out to the Asian ladies at Shin Modern Nails for the excellent pedicure on Sunday.